The End of Days
by Twilight Scribe
Summary: We know that the world ended in a zombie invasion, but how did the invasion actually happen? The story of a disastrous dinner party. Rated for alcohol use, zombie gore, and violence. Huzzah!
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Don't own. 

A/N: Here you go The Bud, the fic you requested. (kinda) I went wild and sort of fused all aspects of your suggestion into one huge fic of doom. I like how it turned out...

Also: This story was originally going to be called "Spider-Man's History of the Apocalypse, Part 1" but that was too long and tedious, not to mention a terrible joke. (If you don't get it already, don't ask.) Just know that Spider-Man is the narrator. It's not that important to the plot but there's one remark at the end where that detail comes into play. Without further ado, I give you the story. Enjoy.

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New York City, the name calls up a myriad of different images. A tough town, an urban free for all, a sparkling hub of commerce, a wild club scene, the hope of thousands of fresh immigrants, the pulse of the eastern seaboard. 

NY, NY is a complex city with a broad scale of wealth, problems, and answers. On one end of the spectrum you have the rich and powerful. People like Wilson Fisk, Kingpin of crime. On the other end you have the honest but poor, the moral but desperate folks who are inevitably forced into the service of the rich. People like Jack Murdock, the Fighting Devil, father of Matt Murdock, Daredevil.

For all this, the spectrum of wealth is to thank, and to blame. The spectrum is what allows a city to be a paragon of high society and at the same time a festering swamp of crime and corruption. It's quite a feat. Or more accurately, it was quite a feat. Sadly the spectrum is no more.

Nowadays NYC is... post-apocalyptic.

Instead of the vast array of cultures and classes so common in the past there are only a few groups. The dead and the living, the infected and the healthy, the hunters and those curled up in corners all over the city hoping not to be found.

This dark age was started by a traveler, a being from another dimension claiming to be an alternate version of Sentry. Normally a traveler of such sorts will come to a respected member of the community, identify themselves, and extend an offer of peace and hoped prosperity between the two groups. This one crash-landed in the middle of the city and began devouring everything in sight.

It all went downhill from there. Those who had been attacked by the cross-dimensional Sentry either died on the spot or staggered a few feet, bit and infected someone else, then died on the spot. Some of the hardier victims were able to jog a few blocks before their demise caught up with them, infecting several people before the end.

Despite this, the bizarre, zombifying disease was slow to spread from the where the Sentry's initial rampage had occurred. That is, until the first metahuman arrived on the scene.

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	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Don't own.

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When Wolverine was first dragged into the fancy italian restaurant in the midst of Times Square he had a very sour outlook on life. He had been coerced into a suit and tie at lightning-point by Storm, half-carried into the waiting Cadillac parked outside the Xavier Institute by Colossus, and shanghaied to New York. Not at all a good way to start a birthday dinner.

Fortunately, the Canadian brawler's attitude improved greatly when he discovered the restaurant's well-stocked bar. After six drinks he was feeling a bit better. After fourteen he was having a great time. After thirty-seven he was having such a good time that he threatened to eviscerate anyone who tried to remove him from the establishment. His teammates decided that it would be best to let him enjoy himself and instructed him to call for a ride when he was ready to go.

Healing factor or not, even the mightiest of livers can be overcome. Such was the case with dear Wolverine. To his credit he downed fifty-two beers before he was compelled to make a beeline for the restroom. Afterwards he decided it was in his best interests not to return to the bar and exited the restaurant.

Oh, the stinging irony, that a decision which usually is wise and reasonable should turn out so badly.

As he walked out onto the street, staggering slightly, (Not to say he was drunk. The combination of a late night and massive alcohol intake had just thrown him off his game.) Wolverine failed to notice how most of the crowd around Times Square was staggering just as badly as he. The groans of "brains..." and "feed..." would probably have gone unnoticed as well if one of the tourist zombies hadn't bumped into him, losing its arm in the process.

It's a sobering experience; walking down the street, accidentally jostling someone, and watching as their various limbs drop to the pavement. Wolverine stared dumbly at the twitching arm for a few moments before looking up at its owner, pondering just what to say. Somehow "Sorry 'bout that, Bub" didn't seem adequate. When he finally lifted his gaze and took in the sight of a horde of rotting zombie carcasses shuffling towards him the proper course of action was obvious.

Snapping out of his alcohol-induced stupor he, in one smooth motion, pulled the cell phone from his suit pocket, turned tail, and ran like hell. He'd faced fierce challenges and trials alone, but for a full-scale zombie invasion even he would need some backup.

Tired of dodging zombie citizens on the sidewalk, Wolverine ran out into the street (strangely devoid of cars), whipped around the corner onto a side street and ducked into a scummy alley that ran through to the next street over. He had lost the horde but it was only a matter of time before something found him, he hadn't exactly been subtle in his escape. Following that train of though, he took a few seconds to catch his breath then began frantically dialing numbers.

Everyone who had been at the party, everyone who had a phone was called. None were spared but each call yielded only a busy signal or a prompt to leave a message. The situation was reminiscent of so many horror films it hurt just thinking about it.

In his deep concentration on the phone, he all but ignored his heightened instincts. It was shamefully easy for the lone zombie to sneak up behind him. Thanks to his fatigue and the faint haze of intoxication still wrapped around his brain, Wolverine was unable to react in time to stop the zombie from sinking its teeth deep into his shoulder.

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AN: Why do I keep writing characters getting drunk? I know it's in character for Wolverine to drink, but it's becoming a theme for me that doesn't make sense. I don't drink, I don't know anything about being drunk or alcohol, so why do I keep writing it? It's bizarre. 


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Don't own. 

WARNING: Zombie carnage begins in earnest in this chapter. If you're squeamish, go no further. Although I don't know what an overly squeamish person would be doing reading a Marvel Zombies fic... You've been warned.

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The sound of Storm's boots crunching on odd bits of gravel and broken glass was the loudest noise in the empty alley.

The X-Men had gone to see a movie while waiting for Wolverine and, upon exiting the theater, had turned their cell phones on to find a multitude of voicemails from their scrappy Canadian teammate. This was the first surprise. None of them had really expected him to call. They thought he'd be more apt to find his own way and swagger into the Institute the next day.

The next surprise was the content of the messages. The first few sounded normal, if you ignored the impatient and slightly panicked edge to Wolverine's raspy voice. As the group went down the list the found one recording that was punctuated with a sudden yell and copious cussing. The final message was a dire warning that they should not look for him, that if they were to see him they should run.

What did the X-Men do in the face of such a bizarre plea? They went looking for Wolverine.

Storm and Nightcrawler had begun searching in and around a deserted Times Square with the other X-Men until they found a clue. A series of diagonal gashes in the masonry of a brick building, gashes that could only be marks from Wolverine's claws. A ways beyond those slashes were another set, leading into a disturbing trail of marks (and occasionally severed limbs) that led out onto the street and away from the center of the city into seedier neighborhoods.

That's how the two ended up pacing around a New York back alley in the middle of the night, surveying the remains of an evidently intense battle.

Bodies and body parts lay scattered everywhere. All the windows and doors facing into the alley were smashed in, kicked in, and generally obliterated. Bullet holes riddled the sturdy brick walls; blood and other fluids made the pavement slick. Something had ripped a fire escape clean off the side of an apartment building, and over the entire scene were deep gouges rent by Wolverine's claws.

Despite their disgust at the spectacular violence, the mutants picked their way through the carnage towards the end of the blind alley. Near the back wall they could see a figure crouched down, chewing on a piece of... leg.

They approached warily. Although they couldn't quite discern who the figure was, they could make out that it was male. Judging from the aftermath of the battle, the only thing likely to have survived was Wolverine. Furthermore, the only way their friend would wreak such chaos was if he went berserk. If he was still in his bloodthirsty frenzy there was no telling what he'd do.

Wolverine ignored them. He had smelled them coming for blocks, he could hear every whisper and gasp of disgust they had uttered from the second they entered the alley. He paid them no heed. At least not until they were within a few yards of him, well within claw range. Selecting the proper moment, he slowly climbed to his feet, turning as he rose to face his former teammates. His eyes showed clearly that he wasn't berserk, but he wasn't right in the head either.

Waving cordially to them, claws still extended, he presented the leg he had been gnawing on and cried "Ororo! Kurt! Good to see you. Anyone want a drumstick?"

Once the stunned mutants recovered their voices they began to mercilessly hurl questions at their now-demented friend. Furious inquiries along the lines of "what happened to you?" and "what the hell did you do here?" They, of course, never asked each other "should we be running now?"

For his part, Wolverine just waited patiently while they exhausted themselves screaming at him; dodging the occasional lightning bolt, whirlwind, or flurry of kicks thrown his way. When they were finished he gave a disappointed sigh and dropped the leg, then spoke in the calm voice maniacs use just before they pounce.

"No takers? That's too bad." Bending his knees slightly, he kept talking as he prepared to spring, "Me, I'm starving!" Screaming the last part, Wolverine lunged, claws out, straight for Storm's throat.

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	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Don't own.

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Storm floated over the empty streets of New York City. Her hands were to her temples and eyes closed tight in concentration as she tried to call out to Jean. She knew that it was possible for a non-telepath to send a psychic message, the professor had taught each X-Man how to do just that in case of emergencies. Willing herself to recall the nights events clearly, she gathered her thoughts and released them in a stream of mental energy.

The alley, the aftermath, the monster that Wolverine had become. How, when he had threatened her, Nightcrawler had teleported in front of her in a final act of chivalry. Blocking the attack and bamfing himself and Wolverine away to who knows where.

Landing on a rooftop in order to devote more of her focus to communication, Storm tried to send her information again.

Across the city Jean Grey caught the echo of a familiar thought. The message came in fragments, but it was easily recognizable as a call from Storm. Through their connection Jean saw brief flashes of memories, jumbled into a blur of semi-distinguishable pictures. Over all the images was Storm's voice, screaming... something. The only bits of speech that got through were "Wolverine... not to be trusted... gone mad... he's become a... must be stopped-"

The message suddenly became more garbled, the visions Jean has seen turning to one huge, multicolor blur. Concluding that Storm had lost her concentration for a moment, Jean held the line waiting for her to resume transmitting. Soon the images returned, hazier than before and melding together as if Storm was moving quickly. Then a bright flash lighted the mental scene. Lightning. Storm was fighting.

Taking initiative and strengthening the mental link herself, Jean got a perfect view of the action. It was as if she was the one doing battle, not just watching through her friend's eyes. From the picture she was receiving, she could tell Storm was hovering a few feet above the tarpapered rooftop, crackling with electricity and searching for her enemy in the shadows. Jean watched in horror as a sharp "snikt" sounded behind Storm. The picture spun as she whipped around to face the threat, then the connection was severed.

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AN: Agh, short and lacking in graphic violence. I'm slipping...


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Don't own.

AN: All right everyone, you remember that Spider-Man is narrating? Excellent. I know he sounds unusually harsh, but he has his reasons. Read on.

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That little psychic exchange was pretty much the main thing that led to the end of the world. Because the X-Men never received the few vital details from Storm's communique, namely that Wolverine was a bloodthirsty zombie and not just berserk, they thought that they were prepared to pursue him. They weren't.

In their first encounter with him, Wolverine slaughtered or infected every member of the team. The zombified X-Men (the ones who didn't die instantly) then hopped in their Cadillac and sped off back to the Xavier Institute, where they devoured every last student and staff member.

Thus, an army of young, mutant zombies was unleashed upon the unsuspecting countryside. It wasn't long before the government sicced the Avengers on the horde. They did a good job of exterminating the weaker zombies, but fell quickly. You can't expect a mere human, even who's as skilled a warrior as Colonel America, to be able to last long in hand to hand combat against a metahuman without being wounded. (Remember, any injury that breaks the skin will cause infection.)

After the Avengers failed other heroes rushed to take up the torch and continue the fight. Organizing ourselves into a superhuman army that we called the Resistance (it's corny, I know), we tried to suppress the growing undead population. It was the logical thing to do, but it started to get really weird when villains began to join. I guess there's nothing like a zombie invasion to get people to set aside their differences.

If only you could have seen it... I was, at one point, leader of a seven-man squad that consisted of me, and the Sinister Six. It was surreal and just a little bit fun. I know it sounds bizarre, but once they're not trying to kill me Octavius and the others are pretty cool guys. But I digress...

Sadly, despite all our efforts we made little progress. For every hundred zombies we dispatched there were thousands more. We were knee-deep in the dead and barely putting a dent in their numbers. The main problem however, was that our casualties didn't have the decency to lay down and die. When we fell we joined the ranks of the undead.

Our one lucky break? Zombies are a short-term menace. Sure, the ones with healing factors are practically immortal, but most only last a few days. It wasn't enough to help us though. As soon as we realized there were less than one hundred non-zombies in all of New York City our objectives switched from destroying the zombie threat to survival. All of our energy was put into finding resources and hiding survivors. I personally swung around the city, searching for some haven that had been spared from the zombies. I never found anything even remotely close.

What I did find was Archangel, Iron Man and Thor flying around in all their rotting, zombie glory. I didn't stand a chance. After I was infected I despaired. I was undead, I thought you died a long time ago... I had no reason to fight anymore, so I led my new allies back to the Resistance's headquarters and that was the end of the human race. Although I'm sure there are some survivors like you still hiding out there somewhere in the big, wide world...

So, now that I've wasted half an hour telling you things you should have already known- I mean, you did live through all this, didn't you? Hiding away in some secluded crevasse of the city... Have I at least answered your question, MJ? You understand just what happened to me, right? Good. Now do me a favor and hold still. A zombie's gotta eat, ya know.

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AN: ... It's over? What do I do now? I'm bored already... Someone request a story pronto! 


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